Farms and Things

It occurred to me that, aside from not posting nearly enough lately, I haven’t put any pictures up in FAR too long… I’m turning into one of those boring text blogs.  I’m here to remedy that today.

This past weekend we got to spend some time on David’s extended family’s farm down in Yuma.  For these little ferrel children of mine there aint nothing better than a farm.

Verona has ridden horses a few times before with her older cousins but this was Finn’s first time up on one, he didn’t get to ride it, just sat for a few minutes while Verona squealed with glee.

Finn got more attention than he can handle from aunts and uncles.

The best part though was that Verona found a tortoise, Jhenaveve, who lives on the ranch.

It was love at first sight.  At least for Verona… I don’t really think Jhenaveve gave a shit.  Verona spent the majority of the afternoon following the poor thing around where ever she went, giving her hugs and kisses and little neck scratches which she assumed tortoises would like since dogs do.  Reasonable assumption I guess.  And Jhenaveve never bit her so I’m taking that as a sign that she agreed.

Conversations with a two year old

Me: “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
Verona: ”I want to be a giraffe.”
Me: “You want to be a giraffe?”
Verona: “A giraffe… or maybe a fruit smoothie.”
Me: “If you were a fruit smoothie somebody might eat you.”
Verona: “If I was a fruit smoothie I would be DELICIOUS!”

That time I popped a baby out of my lady hole.

The fabulous Wilson over at Not Quite What I Expected gave the run down of her just popping her new little girl out and I realized I never did that with either of my kids.  So put on your seatbelts folks, I promise never to use the word mucus and to use as many euphamisms of vag as possible.

With Verona I was dead set not on having a natural birth (I find it laughable to say I WILL DO THIS about a situation you have no first hand experience with) but on giving the whole natural birth thing my best effort.  However, after 72 hours in active labor I decided that 72 hours totally counts as “my best/anyone’s best”, so after three days with lots of excruciating pain and little to no sleep I wept with joy when the beloved anesthesiologist stabbed that amazing giant needle into my spine… then promptly fell asleep, dreaming dreams of the pain-free delivery I was now sure I would have.

But there’s a dirty little secret your OB doesn’t tell you… epidurals have a finite time frame on their effectiveness.  So by that night when Verona finally made her grand arrival into the world (SOOO many more hours later than I or any medical professional thought) it had totally worn off, and her birth was 100% natural… just like I had thought I wanted.

I’ve heard of people crying tears of joy right after they have their baby, praying, or developing a sudden inability to stop smiling.  All I can remember is swearing.  Swearing up and down at the doctor as he put stitch after stitch after endless stitch in the massive damage Verona’s abnormally large head (in the 99th percentile) had done… all with zero pain killers.

Needless to say, I was a little traumatized by the entire experience, and for the entire 40 weeks of Finn’s pregnancy I was in complete and utter terror that the same thing would happen.

So I scheduled an induction for 39 weeks… and I knew people were judging me but I didn’t give a shit.  Not even a little shit.  Not even one of those tiny round turds that rabbits poop.  You know what I did give a shit about?  My lady garden not being ripped open like a ziploc snack bag full grahm crackers in the hands of a hungry toddler.  I also didn’t give a shit about attempting a “natural birth” because with the exception of that nice 10 hour rest in the middle of V’s labor I had already done that, and I had little to no interest in doing it again.

I was already in early labor when we went in for the induction so they helped keep things humming (none of this four day labor bullshit again) but it wasn’t a full induction in any sense.  And as soon as things started hurting bad enough I couldn’t focus on the movie David and I were watching a stunningly handsome anesthesiologist came in at my request and shot me up with all sorts of horrible drugs.

Because hey, my baby and I were both having a really big rough day, and I thought we deserved to be a little high on something to help us deal with it.  If you’re judging me right now… remember that story about the tiny bunny turds from earlier?  Go reread it… it applies again.

And (thank the LORD!) after the trail that his big sister blazed the little monster slid out of there like my business was a freaking water slide.  Weeeee!

There was no swearing after he was born.  Well, there probably was (I’m part sailor) but it was the good happy kind, not the angry painful kind.  The doctor immediately put him in my arms and David and I ooooed and awwwed, and talked about how perfect he was, and about how we couldn’t remember Verona ever being this small (which we later found out was because he was a full 2lbs smaller than her) until sudden the room started spinning and my vision started blurring and I looked at David and said “take this baby, take this baby right now or I’m going to drop him on the floor” right as he scooped the baby up and I lost consciousness.

Nothing says “love at first sight” like throwing your baby at someone else so you can take a little involuntary nap.  But he was born into a family of people who do everything weird, it was good he found that out right from the start.

After my blood pressure stabilized and I came to we continued the love fest.

And then I had two kids instead of one.  And the rest has been at least partially documented on here.  I hope you enjoyed this little trip through yoni memory lane as much as I have.

Some fun facts about me and alcohol.

1. I basically only write while I’m drinking.  Not drunk, just drinking.  Which is why I only post here once or twice a week and why you should be concerned if this started being the “multiple posts a day” kind of blog.

2. If you made a list of the “top five funniest things Jenna has ever written” I probably was drunk when I wrote those.  Just sayin.

3. I wanted a margarita tonight but was too lazy to make one so I just threw taquila in some organic Limeade from Fresh and Easy.  It’s better than expected.

4. I’m terrified of becoming an alcoholic, both because it runs in my family and also because I love margaritas so damn much.  That fear leads me to do weird, unnecessary things, like…

5. I eat popsicles instead of drink 90% of the time.  When shit happens and I think “Ugh… I need a drink!” I eat a popsicle instead because if you drink everytime something shitty happens in your day you’re an alcoholic for sure.  The result is that (between the kids and I… I’m not entirely to blame on this one) we go through three or four boxes of popsicles a week in our house.

My husband knows me entirely too well.

As I’ve said before, I like to live under the delusion that I’m a minimalist at heart who’s just failing a little.  One area I’m not failing in is the clothing arena, specifically shoes.  I have exactly three pairs of shoes, a pair for hiking, running, and whatnot that my mother-inlaw got me because I didn’t own any and she thought I should, one pair of cute flats that I’ve had since high school… neither of those find their way out of the closet very often because in Phoenix whole shoes are a bad plan.  I also have a pair of sandles that I wear everywhere all the time that are like five years old.

That is, until last Sunday, when the sandles broke… broke in a way that duck tape cannot fix.  I was half devestated (cause now I had to spend money on new shoes) and half elated because the brand that I like has WAY cuter styles now than they did when I bought these back in the day and now I had an excuse to get some.

So after doing the weird broke-shoe-shuffle home from the restaurant I was at when it happened I got online and started checking out my options.  That’s when the moral brain twisting started…

Me: “David, so I’m looking at shoes and there’s a FABULOUS pair that I love like only a woman can love a pair of shoes… but there’s also a perfectly ok, not sucky pair that are $30 less.”

David: “So you’re getting both?”

Me:  “Don’t be stupid.  I need you to tell me which ones to get.”

David:  “You do know you’re allowed to own more than one pair of shoes, right?”

Me:  “You can only wear one pair at a time, now quit trying to make me all extravagant and help.  $30 is $30… that’s like five meals at Chino Bandito.  Five meals at Chino Bandito is not something to take lightly.”

David:  “I’m not going to be able to focus on anything you’re saying now that you’ve got me all hungry for the Chino.”

Me:  “Stop not taking this seriously!  There are two little men in my head, one is my frugality and the other is my, albiet limited, sense of fashion.  They’re both wearing suits of armor and they’re fighting with swords and I need you to help one of them win.”

David:  “You’re so much weirder than you realize.”

Me:  “And you’re useless to me right now.”

So the mental anguish continued.  On one hand the idea of spending thirty extra dollars purely for the sake of vanity made me start to twitch a little, but on the other hand… (cue super high pitched girly voice) OMG THEY’RE SO CUTE!  I went back and forth over the issues all day, everyday, I brought it up to just about everyone I talked to (which I’m sure only made them think I’m even weirder than they already did), I lost sleep over it.

Meanwhile, I went barefoot.  Everywhere.

Then Thursday afternoon a package arrived… which I opened to find the fabulous, more expensive, pair I was in love with.

Me:  “David!  Look at these shoes!  Where did they come from!?!”

David:  “I ordered them Sunday night right after we talked about it.  I knew you would take a completely inappropriate amount of time to decide, that is if you ever did at all,  so I took over.  Jenna, this may come as a surprise to you, but you do in fact need shoes.”

Me:  “What if I would have ordered a pair myself in the meantime?  How do you know I didn’t?  Maybe there’s another pair in the mail right now that I ordered and then we’ll be stuck with two pairs of shoes.”

David:  (looking at me like I just declared that my name was Mrs. FuzzyBritches and that I was raised by a cup of coffee) “Uhhh, Jenna I know you better than that.”

So I have some shoes.  And they’re awesome and I love them, they go with everything, and now I don’t have to debate shoe choices for another half decade or so… thank god.

My husband is holding me back. And it’s awesome.

This past week something came up that would have been kinda fun for David to do, but he couldn’t, because he’s married and has kids.

I’ve been the spokesperson for a spouse and kids not meaning you had to settle down.  Settling down is something old people do and is code for “I’ve given in to the man”… marriage on the other hand is something you do when you find a person you want to spend your life with, having kids is something that happens when you’re too drunk to properly use birth control you want that love to expand into new people.  Neither of those things have to involve the dreaded “settling down”.

So when this little incident arose and it was blatantly obvious that having me around was holding David back, even though it was from something small and fairly insignificant, my world was twisted up.  WHAT!?!?!  Being with me is holding David back?!?!  This is not what love is supposed to look like!!!  What was I dooooooooing!?!?!”

Because love isn’t suppose to hold you back, right?

Then it occurred to me, my dream job has always been to be Snow White at Disney World… I’m so meant to be Snow White that two of the three main requirements “hair black as ebony, skin white as snow” are hardwired into my very DNA, not to mention I can sing.  All I need is a tube of red lipstick and this Disney Princess is ready to rock!

But I will never be Snow White at Disney world because David hates the entire area around LA so much it hurts… and as such we can never live there.

David is holding me back.  And I’m holding David back… in much bigger ways I’m sure than the little issue that spawned this mental drama.  We’re holding each other back.  And on that note the kids are holding us back… possible even more than we’re holding them back, which is also quite a bit.  We’re just a cluster fuck of stopping each other’s fun.

But we do it because it’s more than just that.  (Well, that’s why David and I do it… the kids do it because if we weren’t around to feed them they’d probably die… they’re basically stuck with us.)  I’m 100% positive that the things I gain by being with David are better than being Snow White, even though that would be totally awesome.  I’m assuming David feels the same way because love is basically just selfishness disguised he’s constantly chosing to be with me.

In the end I think we’re probably all winning.  And even though nobody’s going to pay me for it I’m going to be Snow White for Halloween.

And just for the record, this little piece of self realization does not mean that we’ve settled down.

I’m either a packrat or a minimalist… just not sure which.

I don’t consider myself a pack rat, infact I like to live under the delusion that I’m a minimalist at heart who’s just profoundly imperfect at it.  Truth be told our house gets bogged down in clutter more often than I care to admit but when I have a few hours without kids I regularly grab a trashbag and freak out, throwing away everything in sight.  Seriously though, things that genuinely never get used don’t last terribly long around here… or at least they rarely do.

So can  somebody tell me why on earth when I did a bathroom-trashbag freakout the other day I had all this?

I can count on one partially amputated hand how many times in the last 10 years I’ve worn makeup or put my hair up in anything fancier than a braid or bun… and I can count on a completely amputated nub how many times I’ve done it without looking stupid as a result.  (I’ll give you a hint, it’s none.)

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got plenty of self concious image hang ups… I’m practically swimming in body image issues… mine are just the kind aided by spanx not concealor.

But occasionally I’ll be at the store and see some fancy girly face thing and say “Oh, I’ll use that, this is different than the other things I have, the color is way better, I’ll totally use this.” and apparently that has happened a few more times than I had realized.  So of course for all the big talking I do about simplicity and all that jazz this little fiasco made me feel like a big fat failing hypocrite… and I’m not sure why I’m even telling both of you you all this except that maybe I think I deserve a little more shame over it all….

…although in a half hearted attempt to redeem myself I’m going to end this weird and rambling post with a little story about how, with the exception of a few thrift store pairs for various costumes and whatnot, I am about to buy the first pair of shoes I’ve gotten for myself in half a decade because the ones I’ve been wearing the previous half decade died yesterday.  Died a death that duck tape can’t fix.